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Sunday, 4 February

1. Woman sitting next to me on the train who has no concept of personal space (cue elbow digs), coughs without putting her hand over her mouth and has just eaten an egg-andmayonnaise sandwich. If I’d had a gun, I’d have shot that fucking sandwich right out of her hands

2. Plug hogs on trains. Woman next to me is also one of these

3. Pass ag ticket inspector who huffed when I showed him my seat reservation instead of my ticket, then lingered, making small talk with the nineteen-year-old blonde student nurse behind me

4. Man in Lycra shorts who barged past me to the last seat on the Tube

5. Everyone who lives or works in London

Had my usual Dad dream. Woke up with the shakes. I told Craig I was just cold. Am on the train now, travelling to London for tomorrow’s Up At the Crack interview. The OK! magazine I bought at the station is a veritable cavalcade of fake-titted reality stars and women too fat or too thin, according to what’s in fashion, so I’ve given up. I’m now enjoying watching the people who get on board whenever the train stops at a station. I like how they look around when they alight, sizing up the competition.

Hmm, who is the least threatening person to sit next to, they think.

Will it be the group of young men sitting around the table covered with empty beer bottles at 9.29 a.m.? No, definitely not.

How about the oily old gent with the carrier bag on his lap who looks like Robin Williams in One Hour Photo? Not, not him either.

How about the four ginger kids whose tablets are all on full volume? Or the two old women incessantly nattering – one who looks like Helen Mirren, the other like Helen Mirren’s less successful brunette sister who works in Aldi?

No. They all make a beeline for me, of course. Because I’m the woman alone. Sweet and unthreatening. Friendly faced. Quiet.

Craig had suggested a B&B for me a couple of streets away from the TV studios, one he’d stayed in when him and Stuart went up to watch QPR play Middlesbrough and his train home was cancelled. He said the fry-up was ‘beyond the beyond’.

A man rubbed up against me on the Tube out of Paddington. He must have been thirty-something. Bit of a quiff going on, highly polished shoes, iPhone clutched in one hand, latte in the other, cock against my arse. The train wasn’t that packed. He could have moved away but he chose not to. I don’t mean just brushed against me either – this isn’t me getting all hoity-toity-Calm-Down-Dear about it. He was dry-humping me. I was in a good mood so I handled it as calmly as I could. I turned to him, so we were cock to front on and I said veeeery quietly in a voice only he could hear

‘You carry on doing that, I will slit your fucking throat.’

And I gave him a flash of my knife. And it stopped. Instantly. And the next time the train reached a station, he got off.

I got off and pootled around Covent Garden for a bit to waste some time before I could check in. I got some more money out of Julia’s bank account and bought some warm cookies in a little French bakery just off the main square. Found a kitchen shop which had the most astonishing array of Sabatier knives in the window, the display created to look like a starburst of weapons. I stared at them for ages, imagining which handle would look best with my fingers around it. They were all better than my crappy little steak knife. Might go back there tomorrow. We need a new tin opener as well. Mrs Whittaker has nicked ours.

I couldn’t live in London but I like to inject myself with it every now and then. It’s quite nice when it’s not raining or being bombed.

*

Just logged back in to report that the B&B is a shithole and my mattress is covered in piss patches. I’m sleeping on my bath towel tonight.

In other news, I’m getting bored of the chat rooms. Took me ages to cum tonight, though I do generally find it hard to climax when I’m on a mattress that was around during the Renaissance.

Monday, 5 February

1. People who design hotels – why in God’s name can’t you put the mother-loving plug sockets by the bed?

The fry-up at the B&B was beyond disgusting, but I kind of knew it would be because a) Craig recommended it and b) I never have luck with hotels. There’s always a pube, always a stain, and always a shag-a-thon or a troupe of horses doing dressage in the next room at 3 a.m.

Up at the Crack’s runner Jemimah Double-Barrelled met me at the back entrance of TV Central. She was wearing trainers with neon laces, which irked me beyond socially acceptable levels, and her hands appeared glued to the edges of an iPad. In the lift upstairs, she told me I was to be on air between a segment about a botched hysterectomy and a recipe for a three-cheese quiche.

‘So we’ll take you in to make-up and get you all sorted and do your hair and then you can have a quick meet with the presenters.’ Her fingertips went back to the mole cluster on her neck and picked at it like she was selecting the thickest Malteser.

‘Who, John and Carolyn?’ I said, sending a tiny bubble of hope into the universe that the Biggest Wanger in Town, Tony Tompkinson, was ill or on holiday or something, so I wouldn’t have to spend the whole interview staring down at the massive bulge in his trousers.

‘No, it’s Tony and Carolyn on today. John does it with Carolyn every other day and then it’s Melinda and Tristan on Fridays.’

Tristan was the black presenter they chucked in on a Friday with the gay weather girl to even things up a bit, diversity-wise. The weekend sister show Chatterday they gave to the blonde in the wheelchair.

The hair and make-up women went to town on my face, and by town I mean Slutsville. Whilst doing me, I overheard them bitching about Carolyn’s demands for a dressing room of her own, some boy-bander’s request for no-carb toast and Tony Tompkinson’s latest bust-up with his agent.

Apparently, he was shagging her.

Apparently, Tony is shagging everyone.

Well, when you’ve got that much hot dog it’s silly to put it in just the one roll.

The woman in the make-up chair to my right was an actress in some crime thing. To my left was a bloke whose pug had just got through to the semi-finals of Pets Who Can Sing and Dance. I didn’t feel like conversating with either to be honest but I tried my best. Well, my head was nodding and my mouth was all ‘How interesting’ but really I was thinking about bleeding Julia out over the bathtub at Mum and Dad’s.

Then Tony and Carolyn swept in for a pre-show ‘touch up’ before they went live. It looked to me like they’d been touched up quite a bit already.

‘Tony, Carolyn, this is Rhiannon Lewis, today’s Woman of the Century shortlister.’ Jemimah had reappeared behind me, sans iPad, avec protein ball.

‘Well, no need to introduce you, Rhiannon, your reputation goes before you,’ Tony chuckled. ‘How you doing?’ Cue unauthorised body contact #1 – shoulder rub.

‘Yeah, I’m fine, thanks.’

‘It’s so lovely to meet you, Rhiannon,’ said Carolyn, smiling like a grand piano. Her face was caked in foundation but there were bumps all over it. ‘What do you prefer to be called?’

‘Rhiannon’s fine,’ I said. Rhiannon was what I always wanted to be called but most people insisted on saying Rhee to save time. Linus once called me Rheetard and I nearly yanked his head back and spat in his mouth.

‘We’ll be gentle with you, we promise!’ Tony heh-heh-hehed. My eyes were fixed so concretely on his face so as not to look down to What Lies Beneath, they were almost watering. I think they took it as nervousness, causing Tony to commit unauthorised body contact #2 – supportive forearm grab and accidental boob stroke. Ugh.

‘So our womb lady’s stuck on the bridge in Cardiff, which means her item’s been shifted to tomorrow. You’re on after the quiche but before the boy band, OK?’

They ran through the in-depth questions they would ask me in the three-and-a-half-minute slot – there’s no time for tragedy when there’s a three-cheese quiche in the oven, after all – and I was parked in the Green Room, to sign release forms, have my microphone clipped on and await my fate. After a fidgety age, Jemimah Double-Barrelled came and got me and we walked down a purgatory of white corridors to the studio.

The set looked more of a headachy pink and yellow colour in real life than it did in HD, like someone had puked Rainbow Skittles over it. The edges of the floor were covered with long snaking black wires and large portable cameras wheeled around back in the shadows and forth in a strange robotic dance. Carolyn and Tony were in situ and I was ushered to sit down opposite on the famous fuchsia-pink banquette. All I could smell was burnt cheese.

‘OK, Rhiannon,’ said Tony, ‘so we’ll run the competition trailer and then come to you, all right? Try not to fidget, stammer or sneeze and if you feel a cough coming on, there’s a carafe of water there and yours will be poured out. All right? And don’t swear or else we get shot by them upstairs.’ Heh heh heh.

‘Don’t say “fuck” or “bugger”,’ I mimicked.

They looked at me like I’d doused them both with petrol and was about to strike a match.

‘Sorry. It’s OK, I won’t swear.’

Before I knew what was happening, the lights were brighter, a chubby brunette with drawn-on eyebrows had run on to sweep my forehead with a fuzzy brush, the end of the competition whinnied away and a camera wheeled forward.

‘Welcome back,’ said Carolyn. ‘This month we’ve been meeting our contenders for Woman of the Century and, in the last instalment, we are profiling Rhiannon Lewis, the young survivor of the Priory Gardens attack. This year marks the twenty-first anniversary of the tragedy when a man entered childminder Allison Kingwell’s house in a small Bristol suburb and brutally murdered her, along with five of the children she was looking after.’

Tony took over. ‘When police arrived at the house in Bradley Stoke, what they found was a scene of absolute horror. Not only did they find Ms Kingwell’s body, but also the tiny lifeless bodies of one-year-old Kimmy Lloyd, two-year-old Jack Mitchell, three-year-old twins George and David Archer and five-year-old Ashlea Riley-House. Also dead was the perpetrator, 37-year-old Antony Blackstone, the estranged husband of Ms Kingwell, who had taken his own life.’

The baton went back to Carolyn. ‘Amazingly, one child, Rhiannon Lewis, survived against all odds, having been struck with a hammer. She lay silently beneath Ms Kingwell’s decapitated body for hours. Today, the house at Priory Gardens no longer stands as it did, replaced instead by a playground, and Rhiannon herself is now twenty-seven years old and fully recovered from her ordeal. And we’re delighted to welcome her into the studio today. Rhiannon, thanks so much for coming in.’

‘Thank you for having me.’

I could see my face on the monitor on the edge of the floor. Jeez they’d put a lot of blusher on. I looked like I had red light bulbs stuffed in my cheeks.

‘Rhiannon, take us back to that day if you can. Do you remember anything about it?’

‘No, nothing before the attack,’ I said. ‘Only what people have told me and what the witnesses said.’

They were both nodding, like they should be on a shelf in the back of a car. Tony’s legs opened like the gates to Jurassic Park. The T. rex bulged at the seam. It was All. I. Could. Look. At. I’d need a chainsaw to chop down that trunk.

‘So you don’t remember the moment Blackstone got into the house?’

‘No. Apparently, he knocked at the front door and Allison told him to get lost, and then a neighbour saw him go round the back and jump over the garden wall and try the lock on the patio doors. That’s when he smashed the glass.’

‘With hammers?’ said Tony.

‘Yeah, I guess.’

Carolyn took over with a heavy sigh. ‘Let’s take a little look at this VT which might help shed some more light on that traumatic day.’

They cut to the same old montage of people laying posies and teddies outside number 12 Priory Gardens, old women crying and holding tissues to their noses. The vox pop of two old men saying how it was such a close community, how ‘nothing like this has ever happened round here before’. The glistening red doormat. Wailing fathers. Sobbing mums. Three little stretchers. The policeman talking about the ‘unprecedented situation’. My limp body, wrapped in Peter Rabbit blankets.

I was sweating through my Bare Minerals.

Just before the VT finished, someone in the darkness beyond the psychedelic sofas called out: ‘And we’re back in three, two, one…’

Carolyn and Tony’s faces were painted with a new expression of anguish.

‘Rhiannon, I can’t imagine how this must have affected you. Can you give us a flavour of what life’s been like for you since that tragic day?’

Flavour? I thought. What? Like some days I’m smoky bacon, others a little more ready salted, that kind of thing? No, no time for facetiousness, this was important and sad and important.

‘Well, my parents did interviews with all the tabloids and I went on some talk shows. They flew me over for this American one and they gave us an all-expenses paid holiday to Disney World. You can still see the clip on YouTube. The whole audience is crying. I just sound like I’m broken.’

‘How long did it take for you to learn to walk and talk again?’

‘Um, I don’t think I was fully restored until my early teens. I virtually had to relearn everything. How to talk to people, how to move. How to be. I found it very hard. For the things I didn’t know, I developed a kind of act for them.’

‘In what sort of way?’

‘Well, my mum used to worry that I never cried when I fell over and I stopped hugging her. She’d say to me, “Why aren’t you more upset? Why aren’t you crying?” and then I’d try and remember that was what I was supposed to do for next time.’

Carolyn reached forward to the coffee table and grabbed the tissue box, plucking one out to dab at her eye. ‘Rhiannon, I’m sorry, this story always gets to me.’

Try starring in it, love.

Tony leaned in to the rescue. ‘It was the front of your brain which was affected by the hammer blow, wasn’t it?’

‘Mmm, yeah, the ventromedial prefrontal cortex. Frontal lobe. I had a lot of surgery to repair my skull. I have this large zig-zaggy scar behind my hairline.’

‘Like Harry Potter?’

‘Not as neat as that.’

Tony checked his script. ‘The police said the whole attack only lasted a few minutes. Does anything bring memories or images back to you?’

He reeeeeeally wanted some dirt; some bit of gore to share exclusively with the world that the nation could chew over with their soggy Shreddies – how a child’s skull makes a noise like a vase smashing when it’s hit with a hammer; how the sound of a glass smashing even now can cause me to break out in a cold sweat; how Blackstone’s hanging body was the last thing I saw before I lost consciousness.

‘No,’ I lied. ‘Mercifully, I don’t remember any of it.’

They were speechless. I ventured a look downwards – Tony’s trouser seam was bursting with the pressure. Surely no material could hold back that penal tide.

‘You won Child of Courage and Pride of Britain Awards, didn’t you?’

‘Yeah. That was nice.’

The Pride of Britain one had snapped in half in the back of the taxi after the ceremony. I couldn’t remember what had happened with the Children of Courage one. Last time I’d seen it, it was in a box in Mum and Dad’s garage.

‘It must have been such a traumatic time for your family. In fact, your life’s been quite peppered with tragedy ever since, hasn’t it?’ said Carolyn.

‘Yes,’ I said, not venturing further information.

‘You lost a young friend in a car accident when you were still in recovery from Priory Gardens, didn’t you? Little Joe Leech, when you lived in Bristol?’

I nodded. ‘Yeah, he got run over. He’d been coming to visit me.’

‘And your mother died of breast cancer when you were in your teens? And your father from brain cancer just two years ago?’

It was a bit of a non sequitur. I guess they were building up the public sympathy a bit more and waiting for the waterworks. Carolyn pushed the box of tissues along the banquette towards me, just in case.

Good luck with that.

Tony readjusted his position – he was sitting on at least half of his dick, I surmised. That can’t have been comfortable for three hours on a daily basis. I could almost feel sorry for him, if he hadn’t had reached out to pat my knee – unauthorised body contact #3.

‘Yeah, death seems to have a thing for my family,’ I said. ‘Everyone just seems to leave me. I mean, I had a few years of warning with Mum. But with Dad it was weeks. Out of the blue.’

Tony nodded. ‘That must have been a massive shock for you.’

‘Yes, it was a massive cock,’ I said, without even realising what I’d said until they both looked at me in abject terror. ‘Shock, shock, yeah,’ I said, like I’d just stuttered and was trying to claw back the blush blooming in both my cheeks. I attempted some firefighting: ‘I was totally in shock about it for weeks. We had photographers camped in our front garden like I was a celebrity, which didn’t make things easier. Funny sort of celebrity.’

Tony’s bald patch burnt a greasy red. I could see the cogs going in his head – Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, career suicide, career suicide, dead kids, dead kids!

Carolyn had to do the rest of the segment alone with the camera focused squarely on her rock-hard expression. ‘But things are going well for you now, aren’t they?’ She was clearly desperate for a whiff of a happy ending amidst all the doom and cock shrapnel in the cheesy air. Less skull-crushing, more yay. ‘You’ve got your lovely boyfriend and a brilliant job in journalism?’

‘Yes, that’s right. Everything is… awesome.’

Journalism? Is that what we’re calling it now? Yeah, everything’s really awesome now, Carolyn: my journalistic career begins and ends with making coffee and typing up skittles scores, my novel has been rejected by every agent and publisher in the country, my boyfriend’s having an affair with a cum bucket called Lana, I think about killing someone every twenty-five minutes, I hate all my friends and I’ve just made a twat of myself on national TV. Yeah, everything’s gravy, baby.

When I didn’t offer up any more information, she glared at me like I was the Goth girl with the pierced clit who’d announced she was marrying her son. I think she was beginning to wish that hammer had struck my frontal lobe a bit harder.

‘And how do you feel about being up for Woman of the Century?’

I smiled. ‘Oh, yeah, I’m thrilled. It’s an amazing honour. I’m so excited about the ceremony tonight and all the people I’ll meet.’ I saw my face in the monitor. I really needed to work on my smile. It was as wooden as my grandmother’s sideboard.

Tony had composed himself, though he was pretty red in the face still. ‘Is your boyfriend proud of you?’ Cue lecherous glint. Even though it wasn’t bodily contact, I felt like he’d wiped his bell-end all over my face.

‘Yeah, he’s delighted.’

‘What’s his name? Give him a shout-out.’

‘Craig.’ I looked to the camera. ‘Hi, Craig.’ I imagined him and Lana waving to the TV at the end of our bed, lying in post-coital stickiness, smoking endless joints.

‘Aww, that’s lovely,’ said Carolyn. ‘Well, the best of luck for tonight, Rhiannon. We’ll be cheering you on, have no fear.’ It was clear that they’d cut my interview very short. They’d have to stick on a few more sofa adverts in the break.

‘Yes, thanks, Rhiannon,’ said Tony, and did his old man wink, and I risked one final glance down at the peen seam. The anaconda had a baby while I wasn’t looking.

‘Thanks for having me.’ I smiled confidently.

Carolyn and Tony turned to the camera. ‘We’ll see you after the break, when we’ll be talking about the rise in the number of nursery-school children downloading Internet porn, Michelinstar chef Scottie Callender will be in the kitchen with his three-cheese quiche and we might find time to have a chat to these young fellas…’

Four pre-pubic teen boys bounced onto the sofa from behind, scaring the crap out of me and knocking over the bowl of croissants on the coffee table.

Carolyn giggled like a drain as the lead singer and official fittest one, Joey, apologised and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

‘Yes, Boytox, the YouTube-born boy band taking the world by storm at the moment, are here to chat about their sell-out world tour. We’ll see you in three,’ she said to camera, fanning herself theatrically. The saxophone music signalled we were clear and it felt like the whole studio breathed a sweet sigh of relief.

The youngest Boytox member, who wore glasses, stank of Emporio Armani and would certainly be the first one to announce he was gay, sat next to me. He put his heavily tattooed arm around me. ‘I loved the interview. So cool that you, like, didn’t die and stuff.’

I could have killed them all, one by one, right there on the fuchsia banquette.